Long ago, in a cramped flat on the outskirts of Manchester, a man named Timothy Whitaker sat in his worn-out armchair, stroking his tabby cat, Whiskers. The cat, with its perpetually unimpressed stare, seemed to tolerate Timothy out of sheer pity rather than affection. At fifty, Timothy prided himself on his sharp wit and what he considered an understated charm—though few others saw it. His life had taken a turn for the worse in recent years. Unemployment gnawed at him, his flat was a sorry sight with its peeling wallpaper and a threadbare rug hiding a crack in the floorboards, and his prospects were as dim as the flickering bulb overhead.
Yet on this dreary afternoon, over a cup of weak tea, Timothy had an epiphany. Why chase abstract happiness when he could simply marry it? A wealthy, elegant woman—that was the answer. His logic was sound: *Give me a well-off wife, and I’ll reclaim my dignity.* Why bother with a job when he could skip straight to comfort—fine meals, warmth, and a telly that didn’t buzz like an angry wasp?
He booted up his battered laptop, salvaged from a skip years prior, and logged onto a popular dating site. With a flourish of creative license, he crafted his profile. His main photo? A stolen image of a chiselled, dark-haired Adonis in a tailored suit, clutching the latest iPhone. His bio read:
*Name: Timothy Whitaker.*
*Age: 38.*
*Occupation: Entrepreneur, business owner.*
*Hobbies: Sailing, gourmet cooking (a true culinary artist!), and indulging in classic literature.*
*Seeking: A serious relationship with a beautiful, slender woman. Only financially independent ladies need apply—no gold-diggers.*
*”Not bad, eh?”* Timothy chuckled to himself. *”They’ll be lining up for me.”*
And line up they did—just not the sort he’d hoped for. Instead of glamorous heiresses, his inbox filled with messages from women whose idea of luxury was a pension, a knitted scarf, and part-time work at a local shop. *”No, love, you’re not the one,”* he muttered, dismissing each with a sigh. *”I need a goddess with a bank account.”*
Then came Caroline—41, brunette, smiling in a sleek blazer that screamed *success*. Something about her made his pulse quicken. *Could she be the one?*
*”Timothy, hello!”* her message read. *”Your profile caught my eye. You’re really into cooking?”*
*”Absolutely!”* he typed back, swallowing a bite of stale toast. *”Ever tried coq au vin? A masterpiece, I tell you.”*
An hour later, she agreed to meet. Triumphant, Timothy scrubbed his decade-old suit, doused his thinning hair in talcum powder for the illusion of volume, and set off—by bus, of course—to a cosy café in town. He arrived early, clutching a trembling hope.
Caroline was every bit as stunning in person—sleek, poised, with manicured nails that made his calloused hands itch with shame.
*”You’re… not quite what I expected,”* she said, her smile faltering as she took him in.
*”Ah, cameras never do me justice!”* he blustered. *”In person, I’m far more… dynamic.”*
The conversation limped along. When she asked about his business, he waffled about *”venture capital”* and *”strategic incubation phases.”* Her polite nods grew strained. Desperate, he leaned in.
*”Caroline, we’d make a brilliant pair. You’re exquisite—I’d cook, clean, be whatever you need. You’d be my queen!”*
She set down her teacup. *”Timothy, be honest—what makes you think you’d fit into my world?”*
The blow stung. Muttering about *”shallow harpies,”* he stormed out, leaving his unpaid bill behind.
The next month brought three more disastrous dates. The worst was with Margaret, who arched a brow when he suggested splitting the bill. *”I reinvest all profits!”* he claimed. She left stifling laughter.
Defeated, Timothy seethed. If wealthy women wouldn’t have him, he’d make them pay. Online, he became a troll—sniping at influencers (*”All that makeup won’t hide your desperation!”*), sneering at fitness blogs (*”Who’d want a woman built like a lumberjack?”*). No one replied. They just blocked him.
Only Whiskers watched, tail flicking, as if to say, *”Maybe just get a job?”*
In the quiet hours, Timothy wondered. Perhaps happiness wasn’t yachts and coq au vin, but a modest life with a loyal cat.
Or perhaps he’d just run out of talcum powder.
